How 'Bout Them Apples, Boy?by Cold SnapChaptersChapter 2: The (Not So) Good YearsChapter 3: Dust in the HoofChapter 1: AAAH! Ah Ain't Got No Fingers!Chapter 2: The (Not So) Good YearsI keep sitting on the bed, in shock from yet another drastic change that’s going to have to happen. Leaving my family? I’d lived with them for nearly thirty years. How on Earth could I live on my own...so suddenly at that? I can barely cook, and...well, now I can’t cook at ALL, not without fingers...though I’m brought out of my self-pity by my stomach growling. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Mark must have heard it, because he asks “Uh, maybe I should get you something...wait, what do they eat?” Good question. I’d seen a lot of the show, but I couldn’t think of many things the characters had eaten on it. Well, other than various sweet stuff. Then it occurs to me. “Ah can’t believe ah’m sayin’ this, but get the salad bag.” I didn’t know much about real-life horses, but I did know that they were herbivorous: they were plant-eaters. He gets up and heads to the kitchen. Meanwhile, I scoot over so my head hangs off the side of the mattress...and that’s when I realize something big. Wait a minute. I...I’m Applejack. And she’s...oh no. Oh God. I roll onto my back and look down at myself. It’s gone. My...male equipment is gone. It had taken me this long to notice, but on top of being a pony, I was a girl now too. I scream once more, just as Mark was walking back with a bowl of store-bought salad. Of course, he asks what's wrong. The only way I can answer is “Ah don't know what's worse: that ah'm not human anymore, or that ah'm a girl!” Apparently this hadn't occurred to him either. He just stands there, stunned, as I'm on the verge of tears. A person's gender isn't something you normally give much thought about, since having it forcefully ripped away and switched on you isn't exactly an everyday occurrence. He comes over and puts his bony hand on my head. “Look, Matthew...I...I don’t get this either. But I’m sure that this can be fixed, right?” Part of me winces at the word “fixed.” Not sure why I would, since I’m not a dog or cat. What brought that on? “Um, I mean...you know, uh, turning back. I mean, look what Lauren became--” I interrupt him. “Ya think she can use magic?! That’s not sumthin’ ya can just do! It hasta be learned!” I said that a lot louder than I meant to, but the point still stood. For all I know, magic works a lot differently here than it does in that other world. At this point, Mark seems to be lacking in ideas. He just hugs me again, and offers the salad bowl. My first instinct, of course, is to take it from him...but I seem to be lacking in hands at the moment, and my hooves just clack against the plastic of the bowl, unable to take hold. This does not help my mood. “Uh...sorry,” Mark says. He just puts the bowl on the bed, where I just dip my snout in and eat up like a common animal. This is so humiliating...made accidentally worse by him saying “I can’t believe I didn’t come in here earlier and see this.” He gestures to my clock radio. It’s 2:05 PM. Yeah, my sleep schedule is all sorts of messed up. It’s another long story about that, involving lots of late nights playing video games. This obviously isn’t good when you’re back in college to try and finish your degree... ...Wait a second. I turn to my TV and game consoles by the room door. Everything there, from the controllers to the remote, to my computer mouse and keyboard, is designed around human hands and human fingers. I had been playing video games since I was four years old, starting way back with the NES and Super Mario Bros., and continuing all the way to the PlayStation 3, Wii, and 3DS. I look down at the “palm” of my hoof. I’d taken hands for granted, after all these years...and now, I can’t even pick one of those controllers up, or even press a single button at once. And moving analog sticks is right out. I felt like an amputee that had just realized he's going to need a lot of help in the future. Mark speaks up hesitantly. “...Matthew?” I look him straight in the eye; not an easy feat for someone like me, especially in this mood. “It...it...it looks lahk the...” I swallow hard. “...games are yours...” He does a double take, along with getting one of those facial expressions that conveys joy for about a fifth of a second, followed by a crushing realization of what he'd just been told. He knew just how much I loved video games; he'd played many of them himself, though we rarely played competitively. But as great a gift as he'd just been given, he realized just how great of a loss it was for me. As I bury my head in the blankets, he takes my right front hoof in his left hand, gently, saying nothing. Times like this, I'm thankful I have a brother like him. For all his procrastination and laziness, he did care about us. Nice guy, Matthew. And he'll end up like you if ya don't get goin'! We got places to go, ponies to meet! An' ya can start by getting' outta bed! I shake my sobbing head quickly, as if trying to regain my bearings. What is with my head today? As if I didn't have enough to get through...but it was true. Looking down, it's a lot further down than it looks...now, anyway. When I looked human, it was no problem at all. But I'd also never been a quadruped before. “Uh, Mark...ah'm sorry, but can ya help me down?” “Oh, right, sorry.” He picks me up (wow, that feels weird) and sets me on the floor, where I stay sitting. The rough, old carpeting is such a weird sensation now. I hadn't had my head this close to it since my grandmother's dogs were here, and I put my head low and face-down to make them struggle to lick my face. But that felt pretty nice. This...wasn't. I try to stand. This results in lots of wobbly movement, and landing almost flat on my chin again. “Oomph!” However, I do notice something weird to me (on top of all the usual weirdness). It was oddly easy to actually push myself up off the floor...it's the balancing that's difficult. It doesn’t take me long to remember why: Applejack is, by quite a wide margin, considered the physically strongest and most in-shape of the “mane six.” The irony in getting a body that’s physically strong, yet lacking in fingers, is not lost on me--assuming I had the right definition of irony there. I wasn’t exactly in shape before this afternoon. “You need help?” he asks, with obvious concern in his voice. I shake my head. “Ah'll get it...” And then something else occurs to me, which makes me wonder why I didn’t think of this earlier. “Hey, uh, Mark, pick me up an’...an’ see if ya can find a vidya of a horse walkin’. Maybe that’ll help.” “Hey, good idea,” he said, as he picked me up (and it still felt humiliating, having to be regarded like someone who couldn’t even roll the wheels on his wheelchair) and took me back to the bed. With his help, it doesn’t take long to find an analysis video of the show’s animation; specifically, its running and walking cycles. He plays it for me. For obvious reasons, I pay close attention--even though the narrator uses some Flash terms I’m not exactly familiar with. Huh. Who knew...walking like an ostrich in the back and a human in the front. I’d always thought a pony walked like a cat or something. So, pick up the legs in the back as you walk, but walk basically normally in the front? Mark puts me down on the carpet again, so I can try this out. He gets down on his own knees. “Just wanna help you if you fall over,” he says. As selfish as he can be sometimes (especially with his spending habits), that made me smile. Nice to know that when it’s particularly serious, he’s not a complete ass. It takes a few tries, but eventually I start to get the hang of walking as the video showed. Mark stays by me the whole time, just in case. After all, it took long enough learning to walk the FIRST time...though, this time around, having legs strong enough to support my own weight really helped. I start to head into the hallway outside my room. My hooves clack against the exposed concrete of the floor--we’d torn the carpet out years ago, because we’d thought different flooring would be put down soon, partly because of our pets...doing their business in there. My walk kept me up for the most part, but man, was it awkward. My front legs seemed okay, but my back legs were coming off more like that scene in Eddie Murphy’s remake of Dr. Doolittle, when the dog has just had a thermometer taken out of him. But it was the only way I could keep going forward consistently--and I really hoped I didn’t have to walk like this forever. And that’s when I turned around and hit my head on a box: specifically, a foosball-table box, which had been sitting here for years. Long story short, it was supposed to go in a new room addition to the house, which never got completed, for various reasons. “You okay?” Mark asks. That seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. I end up making an outburst. “Of COURSE ah’m not okay! Ya think ah lahk havin’ ta learn ta walk all over again?!” I was so flustered by all that had happened since waking up, I'd made that sound a lot angrier than I meant it to. That was a common problem for me. I dip my head a little. “...er, sorry, Mark, ah'm just so...UGH!” I stomp my right front hoof down, on its side, as if slamming a frustrated fist on the floor. The clack of the hoof on the concrete is still not something I'm used to yet; it's like hearing that confirmation honk on a new car, when you press the button on your key ring to lock the doors from afar. It always catches you off-guard the first few times. And then, I hear a worse noise. The front glass door opening. I can only gasp. Thinking fast, I try to run for my room again, but I stumble...Mark manages to pick me up, just as the deadbolt lock on the front door starts to slide into the unlocked position. He hurries into my room, where I tell him “Put me down! On the floor--I’ll get under the bed!” Which he does, and I do. The front door opens. “I’m home--got off early,” says my mother. Author's Note Man, I am so, so sorry for all the delays in getting this chapter out. I promise you won’t have to wait this long between chapters from now on. I’ve just had A LOT of things happen in my personal life at once, including (but not limited to) final exams, graduating from college, and not one, but TWO serious car accidents--one of which was as I was heading home from said graduation. (I was not driving, and none of us were injured. Can’t say the same for the cars.) Anyway, don’t worry. I resolve to write part of a chapter every single day that I have access to a computer. You won’t be waiting two months again. Chapter 3: Dust in the HoofI cowered under that bed. My worst fears had come to life...not that this was avoidable anyway, as of course she’d notice when her firstborn son wasn’t even coming out of his room. The fact remained that now, my mother was home, and she was going to find out about what happened to her son, and what show he was indulging himself with. She wasn’t the kind of person who waited for all the information to come out first, either--she often jumped to conclusions, sometimes before I could finish my sentences. My mind was racing as to how I could ever explain this to her, especially now that I was talking so differently, and couldn’t help myself. She might think I was just another animal that had gotten into the house! I was thinking at a thousand miles per hour, as one sometimes does when in a panic, as I wondered just how it would all come crashing down upon me. Through the wall, I could hear the muffled words and sounds of what was going on; I'd trained myself to interpret sounds down a hall and what they mean, like I did with Mark's running to my room earlier. I could hear Mom putting her purse down, and Mark saying something (I couldn't make out exactly what)...and I couldn't help but think of all that had happened since waking up, and my new quadrupedal inhuman existence. There's no way this was real, right? Any time now, I'll wake up in my bed, heart beating 200 times a minute thanks to this nightmare (no horse pun intended). I actually try to grab the dust bunnies that had accumulated under this bed. Oh man, I was really, really wishing that something, ANYTHING, resembling fingers would spread out and grasp that dirty stuff...but no such luck. All I can manage is “scooping” it with my hoof, towards me. And that’s when I hear it: the thumping of more feet coming my way. That has to be Mom...all I can do is cower. My hands--hooves--lay on top of my head as I duck-and-cover like in an old nuke-safety drill video. And...I hear the door opening. But not my door. It’s the door to the bathroom, at the end of the hallway. My door was right next to it, on the wall to the right of it. I breathe a small sigh of relief--which spreads that dust around, and makes me put a hand--HOOF--to my mouth in an attempt to keep the bigger clumps of dust out. And then my door opens. I hear a whisper. “Matthew?” I can tell it’s Mark, thank goodness. I crawl forward enough to see him. He looks down and quietly says “I did the best I could--I think she’s onto something. I’m so sorry!” Yeah, a growing feeling in the back of my mind is telling me that I can’t just hide in my room forever...as much time as I spend in here, I do still see Mom every day at least once. Hiding my love of this show was a cakewalk compared to hiding what had just happened to me. I tell him “No, I gotta be--it ain’t yer fault, Mark...ah’m the one hidin’ here.” He looks back, and realizes he’d left the door open--wow, that could have been bad. He shuts it, then says in a very uncomfortable voice “Uh, Matthew, I don’t know, but, uh...maybe you should...I don’t know, just tell her?” My eyes pop wide open in fear at that idea. “What?! But how?! We don’t know how she’ll take havin’...her...her son be...” I drop my head onto the carpet again, on the verge of tears. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep such an obvious change hidden for longer than 24 hours...especially since I had another day of college scheduled tomorrow. And that’s when the meteor hit. Mom opens the door, and says “Don’t forget to wash the--” I retract my head into the underside of the bed, almost like a turtle. I pray that I wasn’t seen. I can hear Mark jump a little at the surprise. He says nothing. I can’t see the look on Mom’s face, but her tone of voice tells me a lot. She’s wondering. “Oh, where’s Matthew?” She looks into my bathroom, which is the only other bathroom in the house, and thankfully is just a doorway away from my room. Of course, I’m not in there. Mark stumbles in his response. “I, uh, guess he’s out and about. I’m looking for him too.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him. More bad news for me. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean? He spends most of the day in here, and he’s not eating breakfast.” In the afternoon. Curse my sleeping habits. Mark is still really defensive. Can’t blame him--this is a pretty big event that he was completely unprepared for. “Uh, look, there’s, uh...” “What? What is it?” She takes a couple of steps closer, each step taking more and more of my will to hide away. I hear him sigh. Oh crap, this has got to be the moment of truth. At this point, I start to sob. Here I am, hiding my presence from my own mother. Hiding my situation. I went from five feet, nine inches tall to about three feet...uh...long. How does someone explain that to their own mother, in a world where magic isn’t exactly common? “Look, Mom, there’s a...problem,” he says. Oh shoot, here it comes. “What?! You’re giving me a heart attack here!” she says, exasperated. I don’t even notice that I’d started to extend a hoof forward. I was so absorbed in my own tears, I had lost track of my own body somehow. Maybe it was Applejack’s need to be honest, I don’t know. The point was, something orange was starting to emerge from under the bed. And whatever it was, it was making noise. Sounding sad. I hear Mom yelp in shock at the sight. She must have lost her balance, too, since Mark rushes to her and apparently holds her up. “Mom, it’s not a snake! That’s...uh, what we need to talk about.” “What?! What are you talking about?!” I can tell from the sound that she’s backing off, towards my door again. And that’s when I sniffle. “...Ah’m sorry, Mom...” I say, eyes jammed shut in tears. I slowly bring my head out from under the bed. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, but the ears catch Mom’s scream really well. “AIIIE! What IS that?! Mark, what’s going on?!” The fact that my own mother sees not her own son, or even a person, but some animal-thing she doesn’t recognize...that doesn’t exactly help my weeping heart. “...Please, Mom, it...it’s me, y-yer son, M-Matthew...” I squeak out in soft, terrified tones. I hear something muffled. Mark must have his hand over her mouth. He says “Mom, really, it’s okay! I think. Uh, let’s let him explain!” She apparently gets his hand just loose enough to say “What’s there to explain?! What’s going on?!” I figured she didn’t hear me, or catch my words. So I say them louder. “Mom, really, it-it’s me! Yer name’s Linda, and ah’m Matthew...Matthew Alexander Harrison! Ah’m not an animal! Please let me explain, Mom!” I cover my face with my forehooves, and cry some more into them. I wasn’t exactly an emotional man before, but after this happened, just about anyone would be. I still haven’t opened my eyes, not wanting to face my mother’s reaction. I had taken the baby’s route of “if I can’t see it, it’s not there” in regards to this situation...it’s amazing what being overemotional will do to a person. Mark had gone silent. All that I hear is the droning of my ceiling fan, the distant hum of the hallway bathroom’s air conditioner, and my own crying and sniffling. I slowly take my right forehoof down, opening that now-big eye, shivering in fear...seeing my mother and brother against the opposite wall, near my bathroom door. To try and further prove who I am, I let out some more info that only I would know. “Ah go to San Jacinto College...ya drive me there every class day. Tuesday an’ Thursday...Mark an’ ah got you that manicure-pedicure fer Christmas last year...please don’t be scared, Mom, it’s r-really me, ah swear...” It’s Mom’s turn to have the shaky, cracking voice. She is naturally quite hesitant to accept things like this. “...No...Matthew?” She looks to my brother. “Mark, is this a joke? This is a really sick joke, isn’t it?” Mark says “That’s what I thought too...” I get an idea, not that it will help much. “Uh...M-Mark, maybe you should sh-show her that video...th-the one we watched.” “What? What video?” She’s looking back and forth between us, as if doing a double-take. Mark swallows hard. “Uh, hang on, Mom, I’ll get it...” He goes back to the video in question. As he gets on the computer, I have to hope that beyond all odds it will make a difference, that somehow it will give me back my family... Author's Note I have no excuse for this tardiness. It hasn't technically been two months, but still, you deserve better. This one's on me. Chapter 1: AAAH! Ah Ain't Got No Fingers!I mumbled in my bed, laying on my left side, comforter and extra blanket wrapped around me tightly like a cocoon, when I woke up. I'd always felt most comfortable surrounded by soft fabric all over me; the touch of pressure all over me helped me relax. Come on, up and at 'em, soldier, brand new day ahead... ...Up and at 'em? Since when do I...oh, whatever, I'm off today...just relax... For once, my cat (an orphaned “tortoiseshell”) wasn't lying next to me. Normally she was the clingy type when it came time to get to bed, but I didn't mind this absence; it meant she wasn't waking me up at 5:00 AM by pouncing on me from above. Man, I don't want to get up right now...too comfortable... And then she starts batting at my hair from behind. That's never happened before...now, I knew I needed a haircut soon, but I also knew that my hair wasn't that long. Weird...oh well, not so bad, now back to sleep...get this out of her way... I roll over, and...wow, these covers felt heavier than I thought, and...uh, where are my hands? I rub my eyes, and let out a tiny squeal of pain as something hard hits my face. Wait, hard? Ow...the heck was that about? This some new version of that shaving-cream-on-hand thing?...Bwuh? I gasp as my eyelids snap open wide like an old window shade. My fingers were gone. Heck, my hand was gone. In its place was an orange...stump. Covered in orange fur, and having a hard bottom, right after where the wrist would be...my other hand was no different. The hell is this?! I don't...feel anything! No wriggling of fingers or anything! What's going on?!...Am I dreaming? It sure doesn't look like I'm dreaming. I can make out every detail on everything in this messy room...actually, messy is an understatement. It's a long story, but there's actually a reason there's so much stuff in here...what's harder to explain is the memory-foam mattress laying on top of it all. But that's beside the point. The point is, while I've been a lot of things in dreams, everything I've ever been was human... Okay, this is just weird. Plus, if I know I'm dreaming, shouldn't there be some really hot woman around? Maybe more? I mean, lucid dreaming makes you the God of your own little world, doesn't it? I try to kick my sheets off, but they move a lot less than expected. And that's when I see the rest of me: my legs have gotten a LOT shorter, and my knees were bending backwards! And they were covered in orange fur too! And my body was...so much smaller. I couldn't have been more than three feet long, at most. Oh shoot oh shoot oh shoot And then I see my tail under me. It's yellow...no, blonde. And near the bottom of the length, it's tied. My cat starts to hiss at me from my right. I can quickly see why: the thing she had been batting at had moved. In fact, it was attached to my head. “Uh, Minnie, what're--” My eyes pop open again. My orange stumps rush to cover my mouth. That wasn't my voice. That wasn't even a male voice. And my accent isn't THAT thick...or noticeable at all, really. Suddenly I'm too shocked to think. I feel my face. My nose and mouth are sticking out in a weird way. Closing my eyes, I can feel that they're huge. Almost like an anime character...my ears are gone. No, wait, there they are...on top of my head? And they're all fuzzy and shaped weird! And since when do I sleep with a hat on? Or wear hats at all? And then I put two and two together. That press conference, that weird TV and internet news: That wasn't viral marketing. It was really happening. And now it got to me. I lean off the side of the bed to look at the dresser mirror on the opposite wall. That was not Matthew Harrison that I saw. That was Applejack. I scream like a little girl. It's brief, but all my fear is concentrated in that one yell. And that brought my brother running. Panicking, not wanting him to see what had happened to me, I rushed under my blankets and curled up in what I can only assume was the equine version of the fetal position. Hearing his unmistakable thumping footsteps upon the carpet-less floor of our hallway, I shiver in terrifying anticipation of what is to come. He opens the door. He apparently looks around. “Matthew?” It doesn't take him long to notice the quivering lump under the blankets. I can hear him coming on the carpet... Please, whatever gods will listen, please let it be that I really am dreaming, and this whole thing with Lauren Faust, Tara Strong, the press conference, and all those convincing-looking live-action pony videos on YouTube was just a really well-done campaign of viral marketing for the new season... My hopes got peeled away along with the blankets. Mark, my skinny younger brother, lets out a scream of his own. My eyes are jammed shut; I'm too scared to open them again, for fear of facing not only my brother, but eventually my mother and...my stepfather. Mark is hesitant to talk, as most people would be. His voice cracks a little. “A-Applejack...? What the hell?!” I let out a small whine. I so want to cry right now...against all sorts of odds, this had to happen to me. I can hear Mark running to one of the bathrooms to get a cordless home phone. This is what makes me speak up at last, out of fear of my parents finding out. “NO! Don't...please, Mark, leave 'em alone! Don't call 'em!” That was the final proof. I even had that thick Tennessee accent. Despite born and raised in Texas and living here my entire life, I've never had a stereotypical Southern accent, and neither has my mother. Now, I stand out vocally...of course, there are other ways I stand out, such as being a small orange pony with a blonde mane and tail. That talks. At all. Thankfully, he does stop, though not in time to keep him from getting the phone in his hand. He asks “Huh? Wait, you know my name?” He comes back in, but brings the phone with him. I wince at the choice I have to make...but something within me pushes myself to tell the truth. Not that hiding it would have done much good here anyway. “Mark...it's me. Matthew...your brother...” He comes very, very close to dropping the phone out of his hand, like someone who's stereotypically shocked beyond voluntary muscle function. My eyes still shut, I hear him come up to me...and hug me. That was the first time he'd ever done that. He never initiated these. He actually looked like he was about to cry. He asks me “Oh man, I...I can't believe this...all that stuff was real?” Mark, unlike myself (pre-pony), is a rather skinny guy. I can feel his elbow bones push into me. “Ow, that hurts, Mark...” He eases up after I say that. “Oh, sorry...just...oh my God, that whole thing--” “Y-yeah, yeah, ah...ah know...b-but it really is me, I swear. Yer the one rantin' an' ravin' 'bout how great yer annie-may DVDs are.” Saying the word 'anime' like that makes me pause. “...Oh good gawd, did ah really say it lahk that?” Mark's the kind of guy who would nitpick about how to pronounce certain things, like days of the week. However, this time, he apparently realizes that some things are more important, like possibly never seeing his brother as he'd known him for so many years ever again. Which would explain why he's not saying anything...he slowly breaks off the hug. I slowly open my eyes...I was right. He looks both shocked and sad, like a great tragedy had happened. And one basically had. I tell him with a quivering voice “P-please, don't call Mom or Dad...w-we need to...hang on a minute...” He says “They are so gonna freak. They didn't know you were even watching that show!” That was true. I had been hiding my viewership of that wonderful series from them. I'd only been a “brony” for about a month by this point. I was forced to watch the YouTube uploads of the episodes, since my stepfather would never, ever let me live it down if he caught me watching what he thinks is just another little girl's show. He really, really hated animation; he called Young Justice a “baby cartoon.” I dared not find out what he would think about what was, for over twenty-five years, considered the prime example of the overly-girly, frou-frou show: an image and reputation that no doubt still stuck in his mind about the franchise. I try to stand. On this soft mattress, that's kind of hard, and I just wind up with wobbly legs that give way, ending up with me down on my stomach again. “Oof...um...Mark? Uh, turn on the computer for me? There's sumthin' on YouTube ah need to see again...” He does, sitting in that uncomfortable steel folding chair and bringing the PC out of sleep mode, and immediately heads to the (in)famous video-uploading website. I tell him to search for “Lauren Faust press conference” and we quickly find our target. There are many, many mirrors of that video on many accounts, but the one we want is right up top. It already has well over twenty million views...in just four days. He turns the monitor to face me, since the desk laid at the foot of my bed, with the monitor facing to the bed's right. He clicks the link, and thanks to our comparatively slow connection, it loads slower than it plays. He asks if it's okay to switch to 240p, the lowest resolution, so it would load faster. All I needed was the audio and the message, anyway. “Go ahead.” We watch the conference together, which was originally broadcast by live streaming. A man approaches the microphone at the podium. A YouTube annotation identifies the man as Craig McCracken: Lauren Faust's husband, and creator of several great cartoons in his own right. He starts to speak. “I… suppose you're all wondering why Lauren called this conference,” he said, clearly very nervous, and possibly confused. “You see, the past two days, she and her good friend Tara have been afflicted with a condition that was unknown to us, until the culprit revealed himself. I…” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Maybe it's best you all see for yourselves. No questions will be taken.” “Pause it,” I tell Mark. He does so. “Ah'd heard sumthin' happ'nin' to Tara Strong, but ah thought she was just playin' the part, no pun intended. Must be talkin' 'bout her there. Unpause it.” I knew that they were revealing themselves next, but for the last few days, I'd thought it was just really advanced animatronics or CGI. Yeah, it would be weird that a cartoon on a cable network would get such a treatment for a season that was going to be a big success anyway, but it didn't seem TOO far-fetched, what with banner ads about “cryptids are real” popping up to virally advertise the then-upcoming show “The Secret Saturdays” a few years back. But now, with the realization of what had happened to me, what I see next hits me harder than it ever could have before. Walking out comes...a unicorn. No: it's got a long, multicolored mane, seeming to flow in the wind, despite no wind existing indoors...and this horse also has wings at its side. The gasps of the press members present are very audible, as they match my own reaction. Coming to the podium was none other than the Princess Celestia. No way...this...this really happened. But...how?! But beside her was a smaller horse...one with a horn and wings of her own. She was smaller, but had hair like the night sky, complete with apparent stars. Her fur was deep black with a hint of navy blue... Wait, WHAT?! Princess Luna too?! But...oh my God...Tara Strong became HER?! Oh no, what about the other voice-overs from the show?! Andrea Libman, Ashleigh Ball, Tabitha St. Germain...wait, Tara didn't voice Luna, that was Tabitha. Oh, whatever, just pay attayntion, boy! I get startled for a second as I wonder how I called myself “boy.” I hated being called that. But I ran out of time to think, as the apparent princess of the Sun started to talk. “I-I...” I know that look all too well. Even on a horse's face, I can tell this woman is a nervous wreck. “I know you must all be, uh, shocked about this. Believe me, I am too. But please don't doubt me when I say that I am really Lauren Faust, and she..." She points a hoof toward Luna. "...is really Tara Strong.” I take a hard gulp as I see the transformed Faust take a deep breath. “The reason I called this conference today is not to tell the world about what happened to us. As you can see, it's obvious.” She's dead serious right now. “I called for this because this is the only way to assure that I am heard by my target audience. You see…” She pauses to clear her throat...her new throat. “There is one other out there who is like us. I don't know who, or where, but somewhere there is a person just like us. Changed. Into a pony.” I do a double-take. Mark goes “Wait, WHAT?!” He looks at me, and I tell him to pause it again, which he does. Then something occurs to me: I look at the upload date. Four days ago. “...Ah don' think she's talkin' 'bout me here...uh, unpause.” We let Lauren continue. “But this will not be the case for very long...” I blink at that statement, listening even closer now. “Everyday, someone else is affected, and this will continue until...” As she stops on her own in the video, clearly overcome with emotion, Mark pauses it again. Now it's his turn to look scared...though he says nothing. I look at him, scared as he is...and shake my head, gesturing for him to resume, which he does. Lauren/Celestia looks into a camera directly, which happens to be the one giving this feed that this recording was taken from. It's like she's looking directly into my soul. “If any of you find yourself to be an Element of Harmony, I need your help. You need to come to New York.” For yet another time, my eyes nearly burst out of my head in shock. She turns her head aside. “No further comment.” She, Craig, and Tara/Luna walk away on their own. My eyes turn from shock to confusion, then sadness. New York...Element of...wait a second! Applejack is...Applejack is supposed to represent the Element of...of Honesty... The video reaches its end, as I slowly give an aside glance to my brother once more. It's all too clear that both of us are now very, very scared. I drop my head so the chin lays on the foot of the mattress, shivering in terror. And yet, part of me is really, really urging me to get to New York City as quickly as I can...and I have no idea where that feeling comes from. I'm just a lazy grown man who's about to turn thirty, and now I've got to leave my family behind? It stinks, but ya gotta do whatcha gotta do, son. More important stuff here. Think of it as savin' yer family, not leavin' 'em. Son?...Since when do I call myself that in my head? What's going on?...And why did I start thinking in that accent too? (Author's note: Yes, I'm the new writer for Applejack. The previous writer is being switched to Scootaloo. Also, this is the first piece of fanfiction I've ever written, period, so if there's something in there that I missed, or is a continuity hiccup, I apologize. Please keep that in mind as you give your feedback. Also, yes, I took the press conference words directly from Markus' Rainbow Dash story. This was to ensure continuity, this being a collaborative effort and all.)
Chapter 2: The (Not So) Good YearsI keep sitting on the bed, in shock from yet another drastic change that’s going to have to happen. Leaving my family? I’d lived with them for nearly thirty years. How on Earth could I live on my own...so suddenly at that? I can barely cook, and...well, now I can’t cook at ALL, not without fingers...though I’m brought out of my self-pity by my stomach growling. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Mark must have heard it, because he asks “Uh, maybe I should get you something...wait, what do they eat?” Good question. I’d seen a lot of the show, but I couldn’t think of many things the characters had eaten on it. Well, other than various sweet stuff. Then it occurs to me. “Ah can’t believe ah’m sayin’ this, but get the salad bag.” I didn’t know much about real-life horses, but I did know that they were herbivorous: they were plant-eaters. He gets up and heads to the kitchen. Meanwhile, I scoot over so my head hangs off the side of the mattress...and that’s when I realize something big. Wait a minute. I...I’m Applejack. And she’s...oh no. Oh God. I roll onto my back and look down at myself. It’s gone. My...male equipment is gone. It had taken me this long to notice, but on top of being a pony, I was a girl now too. I scream once more, just as Mark was walking back with a bowl of store-bought salad. Of course, he asks what's wrong. The only way I can answer is “Ah don't know what's worse: that ah'm not human anymore, or that ah'm a girl!” Apparently this hadn't occurred to him either. He just stands there, stunned, as I'm on the verge of tears. A person's gender isn't something you normally give much thought about, since having it forcefully ripped away and switched on you isn't exactly an everyday occurrence. He comes over and puts his bony hand on my head. “Look, Matthew...I...I don’t get this either. But I’m sure that this can be fixed, right?” Part of me winces at the word “fixed.” Not sure why I would, since I’m not a dog or cat. What brought that on? “Um, I mean...you know, uh, turning back. I mean, look what Lauren became--” I interrupt him. “Ya think she can use magic?! That’s not sumthin’ ya can just do! It hasta be learned!” I said that a lot louder than I meant to, but the point still stood. For all I know, magic works a lot differently here than it does in that other world. At this point, Mark seems to be lacking in ideas. He just hugs me again, and offers the salad bowl. My first instinct, of course, is to take it from him...but I seem to be lacking in hands at the moment, and my hooves just clack against the plastic of the bowl, unable to take hold. This does not help my mood. “Uh...sorry,” Mark says. He just puts the bowl on the bed, where I just dip my snout in and eat up like a common animal. This is so humiliating...made accidentally worse by him saying “I can’t believe I didn’t come in here earlier and see this.” He gestures to my clock radio. It’s 2:05 PM. Yeah, my sleep schedule is all sorts of messed up. It’s another long story about that, involving lots of late nights playing video games. This obviously isn’t good when you’re back in college to try and finish your degree... ...Wait a second. I turn to my TV and game consoles by the room door. Everything there, from the controllers to the remote, to my computer mouse and keyboard, is designed around human hands and human fingers. I had been playing video games since I was four years old, starting way back with the NES and Super Mario Bros., and continuing all the way to the PlayStation 3, Wii, and 3DS. I look down at the “palm” of my hoof. I’d taken hands for granted, after all these years...and now, I can’t even pick one of those controllers up, or even press a single button at once. And moving analog sticks is right out. I felt like an amputee that had just realized he's going to need a lot of help in the future. Mark speaks up hesitantly. “...Matthew?” I look him straight in the eye; not an easy feat for someone like me, especially in this mood. “It...it...it looks lahk the...” I swallow hard. “...games are yours...” He does a double take, along with getting one of those facial expressions that conveys joy for about a fifth of a second, followed by a crushing realization of what he'd just been told. He knew just how much I loved video games; he'd played many of them himself, though we rarely played competitively. But as great a gift as he'd just been given, he realized just how great of a loss it was for me. As I bury my head in the blankets, he takes my right front hoof in his left hand, gently, saying nothing. Times like this, I'm thankful I have a brother like him. For all his procrastination and laziness, he did care about us. Nice guy, Matthew. And he'll end up like you if ya don't get goin'! We got places to go, ponies to meet! An' ya can start by getting' outta bed! I shake my sobbing head quickly, as if trying to regain my bearings. What is with my head today? As if I didn't have enough to get through...but it was true. Looking down, it's a lot further down than it looks...now, anyway. When I looked human, it was no problem at all. But I'd also never been a quadruped before. “Uh, Mark...ah'm sorry, but can ya help me down?” “Oh, right, sorry.” He picks me up (wow, that feels weird) and sets me on the floor, where I stay sitting. The rough, old carpeting is such a weird sensation now. I hadn't had my head this close to it since my grandmother's dogs were here, and I put my head low and face-down to make them struggle to lick my face. But that felt pretty nice. This...wasn't. I try to stand. This results in lots of wobbly movement, and landing almost flat on my chin again. “Oomph!” However, I do notice something weird to me (on top of all the usual weirdness). It was oddly easy to actually push myself up off the floor...it's the balancing that's difficult. It doesn’t take me long to remember why: Applejack is, by quite a wide margin, considered the physically strongest and most in-shape of the “mane six.” The irony in getting a body that’s physically strong, yet lacking in fingers, is not lost on me--assuming I had the right definition of irony there. I wasn’t exactly in shape before this afternoon. “You need help?” he asks, with obvious concern in his voice. I shake my head. “Ah'll get it...” And then something else occurs to me, which makes me wonder why I didn’t think of this earlier. “Hey, uh, Mark, pick me up an’...an’ see if ya can find a vidya of a horse walkin’. Maybe that’ll help.” “Hey, good idea,” he said, as he picked me up (and it still felt humiliating, having to be regarded like someone who couldn’t even roll the wheels on his wheelchair) and took me back to the bed. With his help, it doesn’t take long to find an analysis video of the show’s animation; specifically, its running and walking cycles. He plays it for me. For obvious reasons, I pay close attention--even though the narrator uses some Flash terms I’m not exactly familiar with. Huh. Who knew...walking like an ostrich in the back and a human in the front. I’d always thought a pony walked like a cat or something. So, pick up the legs in the back as you walk, but walk basically normally in the front? Mark puts me down on the carpet again, so I can try this out. He gets down on his own knees. “Just wanna help you if you fall over,” he says. As selfish as he can be sometimes (especially with his spending habits), that made me smile. Nice to know that when it’s particularly serious, he’s not a complete ass. It takes a few tries, but eventually I start to get the hang of walking as the video showed. Mark stays by me the whole time, just in case. After all, it took long enough learning to walk the FIRST time...though, this time around, having legs strong enough to support my own weight really helped. I start to head into the hallway outside my room. My hooves clack against the exposed concrete of the floor--we’d torn the carpet out years ago, because we’d thought different flooring would be put down soon, partly because of our pets...doing their business in there. My walk kept me up for the most part, but man, was it awkward. My front legs seemed okay, but my back legs were coming off more like that scene in Eddie Murphy’s remake of Dr. Doolittle, when the dog has just had a thermometer taken out of him. But it was the only way I could keep going forward consistently--and I really hoped I didn’t have to walk like this forever. And that’s when I turned around and hit my head on a box: specifically, a foosball-table box, which had been sitting here for years. Long story short, it was supposed to go in a new room addition to the house, which never got completed, for various reasons. “You okay?” Mark asks. That seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. I end up making an outburst. “Of COURSE ah’m not okay! Ya think ah lahk havin’ ta learn ta walk all over again?!” I was so flustered by all that had happened since waking up, I'd made that sound a lot angrier than I meant it to. That was a common problem for me. I dip my head a little. “...er, sorry, Mark, ah'm just so...UGH!” I stomp my right front hoof down, on its side, as if slamming a frustrated fist on the floor. The clack of the hoof on the concrete is still not something I'm used to yet; it's like hearing that confirmation honk on a new car, when you press the button on your key ring to lock the doors from afar. It always catches you off-guard the first few times. And then, I hear a worse noise. The front glass door opening. I can only gasp. Thinking fast, I try to run for my room again, but I stumble...Mark manages to pick me up, just as the deadbolt lock on the front door starts to slide into the unlocked position. He hurries into my room, where I tell him “Put me down! On the floor--I’ll get under the bed!” Which he does, and I do. The front door opens. “I’m home--got off early,” says my mother. Author's Note Man, I am so, so sorry for all the delays in getting this chapter out. I promise you won’t have to wait this long between chapters from now on. I’ve just had A LOT of things happen in my personal life at once, including (but not limited to) final exams, graduating from college, and not one, but TWO serious car accidents--one of which was as I was heading home from said graduation. (I was not driving, and none of us were injured. Can’t say the same for the cars.) Anyway, don’t worry. I resolve to write part of a chapter every single day that I have access to a computer. You won’t be waiting two months again.
Chapter 3: Dust in the HoofI cowered under that bed. My worst fears had come to life...not that this was avoidable anyway, as of course she’d notice when her firstborn son wasn’t even coming out of his room. The fact remained that now, my mother was home, and she was going to find out about what happened to her son, and what show he was indulging himself with. She wasn’t the kind of person who waited for all the information to come out first, either--she often jumped to conclusions, sometimes before I could finish my sentences. My mind was racing as to how I could ever explain this to her, especially now that I was talking so differently, and couldn’t help myself. She might think I was just another animal that had gotten into the house! I was thinking at a thousand miles per hour, as one sometimes does when in a panic, as I wondered just how it would all come crashing down upon me. Through the wall, I could hear the muffled words and sounds of what was going on; I'd trained myself to interpret sounds down a hall and what they mean, like I did with Mark's running to my room earlier. I could hear Mom putting her purse down, and Mark saying something (I couldn't make out exactly what)...and I couldn't help but think of all that had happened since waking up, and my new quadrupedal inhuman existence. There's no way this was real, right? Any time now, I'll wake up in my bed, heart beating 200 times a minute thanks to this nightmare (no horse pun intended). I actually try to grab the dust bunnies that had accumulated under this bed. Oh man, I was really, really wishing that something, ANYTHING, resembling fingers would spread out and grasp that dirty stuff...but no such luck. All I can manage is “scooping” it with my hoof, towards me. And that’s when I hear it: the thumping of more feet coming my way. That has to be Mom...all I can do is cower. My hands--hooves--lay on top of my head as I duck-and-cover like in an old nuke-safety drill video. And...I hear the door opening. But not my door. It’s the door to the bathroom, at the end of the hallway. My door was right next to it, on the wall to the right of it. I breathe a small sigh of relief--which spreads that dust around, and makes me put a hand--HOOF--to my mouth in an attempt to keep the bigger clumps of dust out. And then my door opens. I hear a whisper. “Matthew?” I can tell it’s Mark, thank goodness. I crawl forward enough to see him. He looks down and quietly says “I did the best I could--I think she’s onto something. I’m so sorry!” Yeah, a growing feeling in the back of my mind is telling me that I can’t just hide in my room forever...as much time as I spend in here, I do still see Mom every day at least once. Hiding my love of this show was a cakewalk compared to hiding what had just happened to me. I tell him “No, I gotta be--it ain’t yer fault, Mark...ah’m the one hidin’ here.” He looks back, and realizes he’d left the door open--wow, that could have been bad. He shuts it, then says in a very uncomfortable voice “Uh, Matthew, I don’t know, but, uh...maybe you should...I don’t know, just tell her?” My eyes pop wide open in fear at that idea. “What?! But how?! We don’t know how she’ll take havin’...her...her son be...” I drop my head onto the carpet again, on the verge of tears. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep such an obvious change hidden for longer than 24 hours...especially since I had another day of college scheduled tomorrow. And that’s when the meteor hit. Mom opens the door, and says “Don’t forget to wash the--” I retract my head into the underside of the bed, almost like a turtle. I pray that I wasn’t seen. I can hear Mark jump a little at the surprise. He says nothing. I can’t see the look on Mom’s face, but her tone of voice tells me a lot. She’s wondering. “Oh, where’s Matthew?” She looks into my bathroom, which is the only other bathroom in the house, and thankfully is just a doorway away from my room. Of course, I’m not in there. Mark stumbles in his response. “I, uh, guess he’s out and about. I’m looking for him too.” She doesn’t sound like she believes him. More bad news for me. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean? He spends most of the day in here, and he’s not eating breakfast.” In the afternoon. Curse my sleeping habits. Mark is still really defensive. Can’t blame him--this is a pretty big event that he was completely unprepared for. “Uh, look, there’s, uh...” “What? What is it?” She takes a couple of steps closer, each step taking more and more of my will to hide away. I hear him sigh. Oh crap, this has got to be the moment of truth. At this point, I start to sob. Here I am, hiding my presence from my own mother. Hiding my situation. I went from five feet, nine inches tall to about three feet...uh...long. How does someone explain that to their own mother, in a world where magic isn’t exactly common? “Look, Mom, there’s a...problem,” he says. Oh shoot, here it comes. “What?! You’re giving me a heart attack here!” she says, exasperated. I don’t even notice that I’d started to extend a hoof forward. I was so absorbed in my own tears, I had lost track of my own body somehow. Maybe it was Applejack’s need to be honest, I don’t know. The point was, something orange was starting to emerge from under the bed. And whatever it was, it was making noise. Sounding sad. I hear Mom yelp in shock at the sight. She must have lost her balance, too, since Mark rushes to her and apparently holds her up. “Mom, it’s not a snake! That’s...uh, what we need to talk about.” “What?! What are you talking about?!” I can tell from the sound that she’s backing off, towards my door again. And that’s when I sniffle. “...Ah’m sorry, Mom...” I say, eyes jammed shut in tears. I slowly bring my head out from under the bed. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, but the ears catch Mom’s scream really well. “AIIIE! What IS that?! Mark, what’s going on?!” The fact that my own mother sees not her own son, or even a person, but some animal-thing she doesn’t recognize...that doesn’t exactly help my weeping heart. “...Please, Mom, it...it’s me, y-yer son, M-Matthew...” I squeak out in soft, terrified tones. I hear something muffled. Mark must have his hand over her mouth. He says “Mom, really, it’s okay! I think. Uh, let’s let him explain!” She apparently gets his hand just loose enough to say “What’s there to explain?! What’s going on?!” I figured she didn’t hear me, or catch my words. So I say them louder. “Mom, really, it-it’s me! Yer name’s Linda, and ah’m Matthew...Matthew Alexander Harrison! Ah’m not an animal! Please let me explain, Mom!” I cover my face with my forehooves, and cry some more into them. I wasn’t exactly an emotional man before, but after this happened, just about anyone would be. I still haven’t opened my eyes, not wanting to face my mother’s reaction. I had taken the baby’s route of “if I can’t see it, it’s not there” in regards to this situation...it’s amazing what being overemotional will do to a person. Mark had gone silent. All that I hear is the droning of my ceiling fan, the distant hum of the hallway bathroom’s air conditioner, and my own crying and sniffling. I slowly take my right forehoof down, opening that now-big eye, shivering in fear...seeing my mother and brother against the opposite wall, near my bathroom door. To try and further prove who I am, I let out some more info that only I would know. “Ah go to San Jacinto College...ya drive me there every class day. Tuesday an’ Thursday...Mark an’ ah got you that manicure-pedicure fer Christmas last year...please don’t be scared, Mom, it’s r-really me, ah swear...” It’s Mom’s turn to have the shaky, cracking voice. She is naturally quite hesitant to accept things like this. “...No...Matthew?” She looks to my brother. “Mark, is this a joke? This is a really sick joke, isn’t it?” Mark says “That’s what I thought too...” I get an idea, not that it will help much. “Uh...M-Mark, maybe you should sh-show her that video...th-the one we watched.” “What? What video?” She’s looking back and forth between us, as if doing a double-take. Mark swallows hard. “Uh, hang on, Mom, I’ll get it...” He goes back to the video in question. As he gets on the computer, I have to hope that beyond all odds it will make a difference, that somehow it will give me back my family... Author's Note I have no excuse for this tardiness. It hasn't technically been two months, but still, you deserve better. This one's on me.
Chapter 1: AAAH! Ah Ain't Got No Fingers!I mumbled in my bed, laying on my left side, comforter and extra blanket wrapped around me tightly like a cocoon, when I woke up. I'd always felt most comfortable surrounded by soft fabric all over me; the touch of pressure all over me helped me relax. Come on, up and at 'em, soldier, brand new day ahead... ...Up and at 'em? Since when do I...oh, whatever, I'm off today...just relax... For once, my cat (an orphaned “tortoiseshell”) wasn't lying next to me. Normally she was the clingy type when it came time to get to bed, but I didn't mind this absence; it meant she wasn't waking me up at 5:00 AM by pouncing on me from above. Man, I don't want to get up right now...too comfortable... And then she starts batting at my hair from behind. That's never happened before...now, I knew I needed a haircut soon, but I also knew that my hair wasn't that long. Weird...oh well, not so bad, now back to sleep...get this out of her way... I roll over, and...wow, these covers felt heavier than I thought, and...uh, where are my hands? I rub my eyes, and let out a tiny squeal of pain as something hard hits my face. Wait, hard? Ow...the heck was that about? This some new version of that shaving-cream-on-hand thing?...Bwuh? I gasp as my eyelids snap open wide like an old window shade. My fingers were gone. Heck, my hand was gone. In its place was an orange...stump. Covered in orange fur, and having a hard bottom, right after where the wrist would be...my other hand was no different. The hell is this?! I don't...feel anything! No wriggling of fingers or anything! What's going on?!...Am I dreaming? It sure doesn't look like I'm dreaming. I can make out every detail on everything in this messy room...actually, messy is an understatement. It's a long story, but there's actually a reason there's so much stuff in here...what's harder to explain is the memory-foam mattress laying on top of it all. But that's beside the point. The point is, while I've been a lot of things in dreams, everything I've ever been was human... Okay, this is just weird. Plus, if I know I'm dreaming, shouldn't there be some really hot woman around? Maybe more? I mean, lucid dreaming makes you the God of your own little world, doesn't it? I try to kick my sheets off, but they move a lot less than expected. And that's when I see the rest of me: my legs have gotten a LOT shorter, and my knees were bending backwards! And they were covered in orange fur too! And my body was...so much smaller. I couldn't have been more than three feet long, at most. Oh shoot oh shoot oh shoot And then I see my tail under me. It's yellow...no, blonde. And near the bottom of the length, it's tied. My cat starts to hiss at me from my right. I can quickly see why: the thing she had been batting at had moved. In fact, it was attached to my head. “Uh, Minnie, what're--” My eyes pop open again. My orange stumps rush to cover my mouth. That wasn't my voice. That wasn't even a male voice. And my accent isn't THAT thick...or noticeable at all, really. Suddenly I'm too shocked to think. I feel my face. My nose and mouth are sticking out in a weird way. Closing my eyes, I can feel that they're huge. Almost like an anime character...my ears are gone. No, wait, there they are...on top of my head? And they're all fuzzy and shaped weird! And since when do I sleep with a hat on? Or wear hats at all? And then I put two and two together. That press conference, that weird TV and internet news: That wasn't viral marketing. It was really happening. And now it got to me. I lean off the side of the bed to look at the dresser mirror on the opposite wall. That was not Matthew Harrison that I saw. That was Applejack. I scream like a little girl. It's brief, but all my fear is concentrated in that one yell. And that brought my brother running. Panicking, not wanting him to see what had happened to me, I rushed under my blankets and curled up in what I can only assume was the equine version of the fetal position. Hearing his unmistakable thumping footsteps upon the carpet-less floor of our hallway, I shiver in terrifying anticipation of what is to come. He opens the door. He apparently looks around. “Matthew?” It doesn't take him long to notice the quivering lump under the blankets. I can hear him coming on the carpet... Please, whatever gods will listen, please let it be that I really am dreaming, and this whole thing with Lauren Faust, Tara Strong, the press conference, and all those convincing-looking live-action pony videos on YouTube was just a really well-done campaign of viral marketing for the new season... My hopes got peeled away along with the blankets. Mark, my skinny younger brother, lets out a scream of his own. My eyes are jammed shut; I'm too scared to open them again, for fear of facing not only my brother, but eventually my mother and...my stepfather. Mark is hesitant to talk, as most people would be. His voice cracks a little. “A-Applejack...? What the hell?!” I let out a small whine. I so want to cry right now...against all sorts of odds, this had to happen to me. I can hear Mark running to one of the bathrooms to get a cordless home phone. This is what makes me speak up at last, out of fear of my parents finding out. “NO! Don't...please, Mark, leave 'em alone! Don't call 'em!” That was the final proof. I even had that thick Tennessee accent. Despite born and raised in Texas and living here my entire life, I've never had a stereotypical Southern accent, and neither has my mother. Now, I stand out vocally...of course, there are other ways I stand out, such as being a small orange pony with a blonde mane and tail. That talks. At all. Thankfully, he does stop, though not in time to keep him from getting the phone in his hand. He asks “Huh? Wait, you know my name?” He comes back in, but brings the phone with him. I wince at the choice I have to make...but something within me pushes myself to tell the truth. Not that hiding it would have done much good here anyway. “Mark...it's me. Matthew...your brother...” He comes very, very close to dropping the phone out of his hand, like someone who's stereotypically shocked beyond voluntary muscle function. My eyes still shut, I hear him come up to me...and hug me. That was the first time he'd ever done that. He never initiated these. He actually looked like he was about to cry. He asks me “Oh man, I...I can't believe this...all that stuff was real?” Mark, unlike myself (pre-pony), is a rather skinny guy. I can feel his elbow bones push into me. “Ow, that hurts, Mark...” He eases up after I say that. “Oh, sorry...just...oh my God, that whole thing--” “Y-yeah, yeah, ah...ah know...b-but it really is me, I swear. Yer the one rantin' an' ravin' 'bout how great yer annie-may DVDs are.” Saying the word 'anime' like that makes me pause. “...Oh good gawd, did ah really say it lahk that?” Mark's the kind of guy who would nitpick about how to pronounce certain things, like days of the week. However, this time, he apparently realizes that some things are more important, like possibly never seeing his brother as he'd known him for so many years ever again. Which would explain why he's not saying anything...he slowly breaks off the hug. I slowly open my eyes...I was right. He looks both shocked and sad, like a great tragedy had happened. And one basically had. I tell him with a quivering voice “P-please, don't call Mom or Dad...w-we need to...hang on a minute...” He says “They are so gonna freak. They didn't know you were even watching that show!” That was true. I had been hiding my viewership of that wonderful series from them. I'd only been a “brony” for about a month by this point. I was forced to watch the YouTube uploads of the episodes, since my stepfather would never, ever let me live it down if he caught me watching what he thinks is just another little girl's show. He really, really hated animation; he called Young Justice a “baby cartoon.” I dared not find out what he would think about what was, for over twenty-five years, considered the prime example of the overly-girly, frou-frou show: an image and reputation that no doubt still stuck in his mind about the franchise. I try to stand. On this soft mattress, that's kind of hard, and I just wind up with wobbly legs that give way, ending up with me down on my stomach again. “Oof...um...Mark? Uh, turn on the computer for me? There's sumthin' on YouTube ah need to see again...” He does, sitting in that uncomfortable steel folding chair and bringing the PC out of sleep mode, and immediately heads to the (in)famous video-uploading website. I tell him to search for “Lauren Faust press conference” and we quickly find our target. There are many, many mirrors of that video on many accounts, but the one we want is right up top. It already has well over twenty million views...in just four days. He turns the monitor to face me, since the desk laid at the foot of my bed, with the monitor facing to the bed's right. He clicks the link, and thanks to our comparatively slow connection, it loads slower than it plays. He asks if it's okay to switch to 240p, the lowest resolution, so it would load faster. All I needed was the audio and the message, anyway. “Go ahead.” We watch the conference together, which was originally broadcast by live streaming. A man approaches the microphone at the podium. A YouTube annotation identifies the man as Craig McCracken: Lauren Faust's husband, and creator of several great cartoons in his own right. He starts to speak. “I… suppose you're all wondering why Lauren called this conference,” he said, clearly very nervous, and possibly confused. “You see, the past two days, she and her good friend Tara have been afflicted with a condition that was unknown to us, until the culprit revealed himself. I…” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Maybe it's best you all see for yourselves. No questions will be taken.” “Pause it,” I tell Mark. He does so. “Ah'd heard sumthin' happ'nin' to Tara Strong, but ah thought she was just playin' the part, no pun intended. Must be talkin' 'bout her there. Unpause it.” I knew that they were revealing themselves next, but for the last few days, I'd thought it was just really advanced animatronics or CGI. Yeah, it would be weird that a cartoon on a cable network would get such a treatment for a season that was going to be a big success anyway, but it didn't seem TOO far-fetched, what with banner ads about “cryptids are real” popping up to virally advertise the then-upcoming show “The Secret Saturdays” a few years back. But now, with the realization of what had happened to me, what I see next hits me harder than it ever could have before. Walking out comes...a unicorn. No: it's got a long, multicolored mane, seeming to flow in the wind, despite no wind existing indoors...and this horse also has wings at its side. The gasps of the press members present are very audible, as they match my own reaction. Coming to the podium was none other than the Princess Celestia. No way...this...this really happened. But...how?! But beside her was a smaller horse...one with a horn and wings of her own. She was smaller, but had hair like the night sky, complete with apparent stars. Her fur was deep black with a hint of navy blue... Wait, WHAT?! Princess Luna too?! But...oh my God...Tara Strong became HER?! Oh no, what about the other voice-overs from the show?! Andrea Libman, Ashleigh Ball, Tabitha St. Germain...wait, Tara didn't voice Luna, that was Tabitha. Oh, whatever, just pay attayntion, boy! I get startled for a second as I wonder how I called myself “boy.” I hated being called that. But I ran out of time to think, as the apparent princess of the Sun started to talk. “I-I...” I know that look all too well. Even on a horse's face, I can tell this woman is a nervous wreck. “I know you must all be, uh, shocked about this. Believe me, I am too. But please don't doubt me when I say that I am really Lauren Faust, and she..." She points a hoof toward Luna. "...is really Tara Strong.” I take a hard gulp as I see the transformed Faust take a deep breath. “The reason I called this conference today is not to tell the world about what happened to us. As you can see, it's obvious.” She's dead serious right now. “I called for this because this is the only way to assure that I am heard by my target audience. You see…” She pauses to clear her throat...her new throat. “There is one other out there who is like us. I don't know who, or where, but somewhere there is a person just like us. Changed. Into a pony.” I do a double-take. Mark goes “Wait, WHAT?!” He looks at me, and I tell him to pause it again, which he does. Then something occurs to me: I look at the upload date. Four days ago. “...Ah don' think she's talkin' 'bout me here...uh, unpause.” We let Lauren continue. “But this will not be the case for very long...” I blink at that statement, listening even closer now. “Everyday, someone else is affected, and this will continue until...” As she stops on her own in the video, clearly overcome with emotion, Mark pauses it again. Now it's his turn to look scared...though he says nothing. I look at him, scared as he is...and shake my head, gesturing for him to resume, which he does. Lauren/Celestia looks into a camera directly, which happens to be the one giving this feed that this recording was taken from. It's like she's looking directly into my soul. “If any of you find yourself to be an Element of Harmony, I need your help. You need to come to New York.” For yet another time, my eyes nearly burst out of my head in shock. She turns her head aside. “No further comment.” She, Craig, and Tara/Luna walk away on their own. My eyes turn from shock to confusion, then sadness. New York...Element of...wait a second! Applejack is...Applejack is supposed to represent the Element of...of Honesty... The video reaches its end, as I slowly give an aside glance to my brother once more. It's all too clear that both of us are now very, very scared. I drop my head so the chin lays on the foot of the mattress, shivering in terror. And yet, part of me is really, really urging me to get to New York City as quickly as I can...and I have no idea where that feeling comes from. I'm just a lazy grown man who's about to turn thirty, and now I've got to leave my family behind? It stinks, but ya gotta do whatcha gotta do, son. More important stuff here. Think of it as savin' yer family, not leavin' 'em. Son?...Since when do I call myself that in my head? What's going on?...And why did I start thinking in that accent too? (Author's note: Yes, I'm the new writer for Applejack. The previous writer is being switched to Scootaloo. Also, this is the first piece of fanfiction I've ever written, period, so if there's something in there that I missed, or is a continuity hiccup, I apologize. Please keep that in mind as you give your feedback. Also, yes, I took the press conference words directly from Markus' Rainbow Dash story. This was to ensure continuity, this being a collaborative effort and all.)
